The Wanderer
by GlamourGirl190
Summary: The Wanderer wanders because she has no home. In her solitude, she mourns the death of her family in Osgiliath and avenges them whenever she can. But one day, Mithrandir needs her help keeping two little hobbits safe from the Black Riders. Soon, the simple trip to Bree spins itself into a quest to destroy the One Ring. But what good can a grieving Wanderer do?
1. Prologue

**And here's the other story I've been meaning to post for a while. This is another one I have a fair amount of prewritten, so that means steady updates! **

**This also happens to be my first Lord of the Rings fanfic. I'm excited and I'm also a little nervous, simply because there was SO MUCH research and I'm crossing my fingers I got it right. **

**The disclaimer: I just own my OC, not LOTR. **

**One last thing! If you've read any of my previous stuff you know how much I love hearing from my readers. If you haven't, well now you know! So drop by and let me know what you think of this in a review (or PM, if that's your style). **

**Enjoy!**

**Prologue**

Fire. Fire and smoke and the ashes of corpses and the stench of rotting flesh. These were the things Celine remembered. She lay awake, gazing at the stars as the night dragged on. She had been traveling on foot for many weeks now, and was nearing the Gap of Rohan. Sleepless nights were no stranger to her, and tonight was no different.

'I have not slept through the night in years,' she thinks to herself.

She would have lain there for many hours more, until the sun broke over the horizon, were it not for the pounding of a horse's hooves that startle her from her sleepless rest. In an instant, she is on her feet with her hand on the hilt of her sword. And she waits.

The galloping animal draws closer to her by the second, and she crouches with all the patience of a hunter. Nine riders in black had passed her by not a day ago, and she had held her breath at the stale stench of death that they left in their wake. They had ridden on as if they'd not seen her, but she has been on her guard ever since. Their evil is familiar to her. A Nazgul and its rider had been the ruin of her home, long ago.

Celine shakes off the memories and draws her sword with the stealth of a cat. The silver blade glints in the light of the midday sun, and the sight stills her into the calm focus that comes just before battle.

She's more than surprised to see the Grey Pilgrim riding toward her when she peeks out from the underbrush that hides her. He rides with a desperation she has yet to see from him in all the years she's known him.

Celine stands and makes her presence known.

"Mithrandir!"

The wizard slows his horse and skids to a stop right next to her.

"Celine! You have traveled far since last I saw you." His greeting is distracted, and she stuffs formalities.

"What has you riding like the very devil is on your heels?"

"The fire that consumed your home is poised to take all of Middle Earth," he answers, his horse prancing with impatience.

His gaze sweeps over her, appraising her, and instantly she knows there is something he wishes her to do.

"What would you have me do?"

"Travel to the Shire with all haste, to the Brandywine River. Find the two hobbits Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. See that they arrive at the Inn of the Prancing Pony safely."

Celine takes in the frantic worry creased on Gandalf's brow, the urgency of his tone, and the impatience that makes him shift in the saddle. But there's more, she can see the shadow of fear in his old eyes.

"What follows them?"

"The Nine."

Celine's breath catches in her throat. The hobbits stand no chance; their race was one of innocence and smiles and earthy comforts, not of stealth and war.

"I will get them to Bree, and if they have need of me after I will aid them as far as necessary."

"Thank you, Celine," Gandalf sighs, as if the weight of the darkening world is on his shoulders. And perhaps it is.

"Forgive me, Mithrandir, but why do the Nine hunt them?"

"You have heard the tales of Isildur's Bane?"

"I have," she answers cautiously. "The ring?"

Gandalf looks so old, so tired. She remembers when he told her of his battle at Dol Guldur not so long ago, how just telling the tale exhausted him. He looks much the same now.

"Mordor has awoken, and the One Ring with it."

Celine distracts herself from her fear by pulling up her hood and readying herself to leave.

"Mordor has been awake many years now, Mithrandir." Memories of her home set ablaze, overrun by foul beasts that craved the flesh of man push at her mind as she speaks, turning her voice bitter and hard.

"The ring must be kept from the Nine at all costs. The hobbits are brave and hardy, but I fear for them."

Celine swallows her anger and slings her bag onto her back.

"They will not have the ring, nor the one who carries it. You have my word."

"Thank you, my dear." The wizard spares a moment to smile at her before urging his mount back into a gallop.

Celine watches him go until he disappears over the hill. Then she whistles to her own horse and rewards its prompt arrival with a pat on the nose. She vaults onto its back as soon as it's beside her, thankful she never bothers with saddles, and takes off for the Shire with all the speed she can muster.

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	2. Chapter 1

**I had a feelings I'd be researching obsessively for this story, but I still didn't anticipate quite so much of it! Seriously, there is just endless information on Middle Earth and it's delicious! :D**

**To business! Thank you so much to all of you who've favorited/followed/reviewed. Thank you especially to Astiar and NightShadeMoon for your lovely reviews! **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Celine reaches the Shire a few days later. Night has fallen, and she rides along the Brandywine River looking for the hobbits. Her search is interrupted by an otherworldly screech that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

In an instant, Celine dismounts, gives her horse a gentle smack on the rump, and crouches in the nearest bushes. She's done this many a time to avoid danger. Sure enough, seconds later the silhouette of a hooded rider on a black steed comes into view, just up the hill. It rides away from her, thankfully.

She stands when it's passed out of sight and listens hard. Where the Nine are, the Ring must be close.

The crunching of leaves confirms her suspicion. It must be the hobbits, and running from the sound of it. Celine shakes her head and sprints toward the sound on nearly-silent feet that avoid the crunchy leaves. Hobbits are known for their stealth, but these were no doubt in a panic, with no time to watch their steps.

Another scream sounds, this time much closer. Celine fights the urge to cover her ears and huddle down in fear. She promised Gandalf she would keep the Ring from their grasp.

"No!"

Celine springs into action toward the desperate yell. It's the hobbits, she knows it. Sure enough, within a few steps she sees a dark-haired Halfling cornered by a wraith and its horse. Without another thought, she launches herself at the beast's rump.

She collides with horseflesh that smells of ash and decay and rot. Hurried footsteps scamper away and into the forest. A hoof connects with her gut and sends her sprawling. She bites back a yelp of pain and rolls away, down the hill and toward the sound of running feet.

The black rider is moments behind her as she springs to her feet and chases after the halflings, breath coming in pained gasps. Her middle burns at the exertion, but she grinds her teeth and runs for her life.

The hobbits approach a ferry that will take them across the river and away from the rider, but the dark-haired one who barely escaped the wraith is too far behind to make it, she can tell. She also knows he's running as fast as he can.

She sprints up next to him and yells, "Jump at the end of the pier!"

He's clearly startled, but she shoves his back to keep him running. The end of the pier approaches, her hands go to his sides, and at the last possible moment she tosses him to the rapidly-retreating square of logs that passes for the ferry. He lands with a graceless "oof" and she dives into the water just as the wraith skids to a stop and screams in rage.

She swims toward the middle of the river and watches warily as the rider turns and joins three more of its kind in running along the shore and vanishing from sight – for now.

"Grab the rope!"

The dark-haired hobbit throws the rope that tethered the ferry to the dock her way. After a moment of indecision, she takes it, swims to the raft, and hauls herself up without his help, though his child-sized hand is outstretched.

"I would not recommend traveling by night again," is the first thing she says to the four. Wait, four hobbits? Mithrandir spoke only of two.

"And who are you?"

Celine turns to the rotund, blonde-haired halfling who addresses her with a wary tone and even warier face.

"A friend of Gandalf's. He sent me to get you safely to Bree, and anywhere else necessary."

"He never spoke of you," returns the dark-haired one.

"We crossed paths as he was riding for Isengard, near Tharbad." It occurs to her that perhaps now is not the time to be so taciturn, but it's so natural for her that she can't quite get rid of the habit. "Are you Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee?"

"Maybe," cuts in the blonde who's come up next to the dark-haired one. "You are?"

"In the wild, I am simply the Wanderer. Among friends, I am Celine."

"I'm Frodo," says the dark-haired halfling. "This is Sam."

"Pleasure," she returns shortly. "And the other two? Gandalf spoke only of two."

"Merry and Pippin, miss," says the honey-haired hobbit guiding the ferry.

"We ran into them along the way," Frodo adds.

"We have mushrooms!" Pippin cuts in, grinning like the fate of the world isn't resting on the hobbit next to him.

Celine doesn't quite know how to respond to the cheerfulness, so she just inclines her head and turns her attention to Samwise.

"I take it you've been instructed to look after Frodo here?"

Sam nods once, still looking a mite suspicious of the strange woman who appeared out of nowhere.

"You are old friends?"

"I'm his gardener. I've known him his whole life."

Celine is silently pleased. Mithrandir chose Frodo's companion well, even if he only knows the ways of the hoe and spade.

"Very good. Then we have a common purpose. When we have the time, I will teach you how to handle a sword."

Sam's eyes widen, but he agrees with a hint of awe in his voice. Celine understands, even if she is a bit impatient with their naiveté. Hobbits were more suited to garden and cheese knives than swords and daggers. Nevertheless, they would learn, and learn quickly. They had to, if they hoped to survive. She could not protect them all the time, and she tells them so.

"Teach all of us then," Merry suggests, looking quite a bit more eager than his companions.

"I intend to," she answers as she wrings out her cloak.

"Gandalf will be there, won't he? At the Prancing Pony?" Frodo sounds so small and unsure that she almost feels sorry for him. But she knows what he carries, she can feel it trying to whisper to her, and she can't go soft.

"He intends to be," is all she says. The rest of the ferry ride, Pippin quizzes her on her adventures, as he calls them, and she answers in as few words as possible. Sam watches her carefully, Merry tries not to look like he's listening to her tales but he is, and Frodo stares out at the river.

When they finally dock at Brandywine Bridge, as Merry calls it, it's nowhere near soon enough for Celine. Her legs itch from staying on so small a thing for so long, though it was only a few hours. She helps Merry tether the raft in place at the dock to keep her fingers busy, lest she draw her throwing knives and start choosing trees as target practice. While that would suit her just fine, it would frighten the hobbits, and she can't afford for them to question her more than they already do.

Luckily, the task is enough to calm her need for movement for the time being. And the gates of Bree are just a few minutes through the trees. As soon as the raft is tethered properly, she hurries them through the woods and across the road to the gates.

The gatekeeper greets the group with a surly "What do you want?"

"We have business at the Inn," Celine answers before the hobbits get the chance.

"You again? It's not often you pass through here twice in the same month."

"Times are changing," she returns. She thinks something much less civil, but she reminds herself that these are dangerous times and he's right to be cautious about who he lets into the town.

"Our business is our own," Frodo chimes in behind her.

Perhaps it's the hobbit's innocent face that wins the gatekeeper over, for after one look at the halfling's wide blue eyes, he opens the gate and lets them through with an apology and says there's been talk of strange folk riding in the night and one can't be too careful.

"Wise words, Mr. Goatleaf," Celine murmurs to him as she passes. "Be careful. I have seen these riders, and they mean no goodwill."

The old man claps her on the shoulder and grins a gap-toothed grin.

"Don't worry yourself over me, lassie, I've dealt with many a strange folk before."

Celine smiles like it's nothing, but she feels the dread welling up in her gut. These riders are much, much worse.

"All the same, take care. I think these are worse than the rest."

His laugh does nothing to reassure her.

'Mithrandir, please be waiting at the Inn,' she prays. They only have so much time before the riders figure out their whereabouts.

"Stay close," she murmurs to them as they pull up their hoods against the rain and enter the streets of Bree. The men on the streets are by no stretch the worst she's encountered, but to the hobbits she knows they'll seem worse than crass and uncivilized. And the four of them running around in a panic would only draw more attention.

The four of them are all too happy to do as she asked, it seems. She even allows herself to feel some relief as she winds them through the crowded, stinking, and miserably soggy streets. Bree is close enough to the river that it turns into a veritable swamp under the slightest downpour.

Celine tries not to wrinkle her nose at the smell that comes off a man drowning himself in a pint of ale as he bumps past them. Any other time, she would have stuck to the shadows and avoided the main road altogether.

A tug on her cloak distracts her before she can get annoyed.

"Is that the inn we're looking for?" Pippin asks, pointing to the sign with faded letters and a rearing pony.

"It is." She leads them inside and wipes the mud from her boots.

"Good evening young masters, what can I do for you?"

A smile cracks through Celine's hard exterior. The innkeeper, Butterbur, is one of the kindest souls she's had the good fortune to meet, even if he can be scatterbrained at times.

"If you're looking for accommodations, I have some nice cozy, hobbit-sized rooms. Always a pleasure to cater to little folk Mr.- uh…?"

At Celine's nod, Frodo accepts the rooms and gives his name as Underhill. Mithrandir was wise to tell him to leave behind the name of Baggins; even Celine has heard of Bilbo and the Quest of Erebor.

The innkeeper starts babbling about the quality of the ale and how the little folk must be sure and try some while they're here. Celine quiets him with assurances that they intend to stay and do just that. He's a curious man, that much she knows.

"Go and find a table," she tells the hobbits hovering around her like ducklings. "I'll join you shortly."

Sam crinkles his brow in suspicion, but to their credit, they all do as she asks.

"What's the story with that bunch, Wanderer?"

"They look like lost puppies, don't they?" she whispers back. For such a kind soul, Butterbur can be remarkably weak for a snatch of good gossip. "There was a bit of a misunderstanding with Gandalf and some of the Shire-folk during his last visit. But the determined Mr. Underhill there loves visiting with him, and so here we are."

"I was hoping for more of a tale." He looks entirely too crestfallen for her to feel sorry for him.

"I'm sorry, but this one's rather dull. I'll be sure and bring someone more interesting next time." She doesn't miss how his eyes light up, though he twiddles his thumbs in front of his face like that might disguise his boredom.

"You've heard about the strange folk riding about?"

Celine fights a grunt of annoyance. He is insatiable.

"Indeed. Pray they do not find their way here."

"You've run in with them, then?"

"They rode by me on the road not three days ago. They aren't the sort you want running through Bree, or any town."

"Oh?" He presses her without really meaning to. All she can figure is he's had a slow few weeks and is dying for something to spice up his mundane life.

"Stick to the drunkards and rangers that come through here."

To his credit, the Butterbur seems to heed her warning, though the light of curiosity still glitters in his eyes.

"Always a pleasure, miss," he says with a little dip of his head. He's wise to show respect for the rangers such as herself. He gives all of them the same nod.

"Have any old friends of mine stopped by?" she asks as she's turning away. There are a few rangers she'd trust to get the hobbits to safety in the wilds if she needed a helping hand. There were Nine riders, after all.

"Just Strider," he hurriedly whispers. He has a healthier fear for this particular ranger than the others, and with good reason. Strider's reputation is one few would trifle with; he was said to be one of the best trackers Middle Earth had seen, and deadly if made an enemy.

She nods shortly, almost curtly, and enters the bustling table section of the tavern, where the stale smell of vomit and ale washes over her. She tries not to wrinkle her nose; years she's been visiting these sorts of places, and she never gets used to the smell. Even the wet stink of the marshes smells better to her.

The hobbits blend in well, surprisingly, but she still finds them in no time. She rights a chair lying on its side on the floor and sits with them for just a second.

"I have an old friend I need to speak with. Don't make a scene," she instructs.

"Best tell that to Pippin, miss," Sam mutters, looking quite annoyed and more than a little peeved.

"Hey, I've resisted mischief the entire time we've been here!" squeaks the hobbit in question, in a voice entirely too high to belong to one of the male gender.

"So far," comes Sam's grouchy reply. Celine almost smiles; Sam's attitude reminds her of her own habit of cynicism.

Naturally, Merry chooses this precise moment to return with a mug of ale that has Pippin's eyes widening to saucers.

"What is that?" Celine almost rolls her eyes at the reverence clearly on display on Pippin's face. His eyes are lit up like the famous beacons of Gondor.

"This, my friend, is a pint," answers an equally bug-eyed hobbit, humming in satisfaction as he tips the mug that outsizes his face and begins the delicate process of gulping the drink.

Celine really does roll her eyes then, though the action is hopefully hidden behind the shadows her hood casts on her face. She leaves the mischievous but manageable bunch for the dark figure sitting against the wall, curls of pipe smoke winding around his face.

"You always pick the darkest corners, my friend," she says as she sits down opposite him.

"The halflings are under your care?" Strider has never been one to beat around the bush.

"Mithrandir asked me to see them here safely. I presume you are to lead them to him?"

Strider's dark eyes, illuminated by the dim glow of the pipeweed, glance over at her question.

"No."

"Then why watch them so intensely? If you continue, I promise at least Samwise will notice."

"Hobbits do not come here often. They are friends of Gandalf then."

Celine learned when she first met Strider that the man had a talent for finding out information he wanted before anyone was ever the wiser.

"Did the wizard speak with you about them?"

"He had no time, but I know he rides to Isengard."

"What else?" Celine knows that when Strider takes an interest in people, there is always a very good reason.

"The Nine are searching for something of their master's. Mordor is awakened."

"They took a special interest in the dark-haired one, Frodo," she murmurs. She knows no one can hear them, but with subjects so evil it feels like even the walls have ears. Celine makes a point of ignoring the shiver that runs down her spine at the memory of the Black Riders. She also ignores the impulse to tell Strider what Frodo carries. She knows it must be kept a secret, and she isn't sure if Gandalf would wish her to divulge the information or not.

Strider silently returns to his pipe, no doubt considering everything she's said. Celine knows a thoughtful silence when she hears one.

She decides to do the same. She's had little time to collect her thoughts since Mithrandir sent her this way, and there are many things she needs to sort out. For instance, the ring.

She is by no means immune to its call. She'd felt it reaching for her in her mind. It wasn't the slimy kind of evil she'd been expecting; no, the ring's pull felt almost magnetic, inevitable, and more tempting than she'd like to admit.

'The master of the Ring destroyed my home and my family,' she silently reminds herself, casually scanning the loud and dirty room before her as if the Ring can hear her thoughts. 'And it would do the same again, given the chance.'

Strider meets her eyes, and for a moment she wonders if he knows what currently hides in Frodo's front pocket. But he turns back to his pipe before she can even subconsciously squirm and she's alone with her thoughts once again. Or so she thinks.

It all happens so quickly, too quickly.

Her gaze shifts to Frodo, to the glint of gold in between his fingertips. A hissing, seductive whisper winds into her ears and a hypnosis of sorts settles in her brain like a poisonous fog. And then she vaguely hears Pippin say something about "Baggins," and Frodo springs to his feet, and Pippin knocks into him, and then the hobbit is wide-eyed and falling on his back, and the evil golden band is flying through the air.

A heartbeat passes, and the ring falls toward Frodo and everyone's eyes follow it. She can see the need in their eyes without even snapping out of her fogged state herself. Strider lowers his pipe from his lips and stands in one fluid motion, and she stands with him to go to Frodo and get him out of this mess he's created with the too-talkative Pippin.

And before she or Strider can step forward, the panic-stricken hobbit vanishes before their eyes.

"Impossible," breathes the Wanderer, who has seen many things but never this sort of magic. 'How useful something like that could be,' she thinks dimly.

Strider covers the distance to where Frodo disappeared in less time than it takes for her to blink, and his absence snaps her from her haze. He can take care of Frodo, she trusts him, and the rest of the hobbits will need some direction.

She crosses the room, grabs Pippin, and groups the three honey-haired hobbits together.

"Where'd he go?" whispers a wide-eyed Merry, staring at the spot on the floor where his friend ought to be.

"Powerful magic is behind this," is the only thing she offers, and in a murmur so quiet he leans forward on his hairy toes to hear.

"I'm sorry, I-" Pippin never finishes.

"You had to go and blab about him bein' a Baggins!" Sam explodes, glaring fiercely at the source of all this trouble.

"No one told me not to!"

"No one shoulda had to!"

"Enough!" Celine silences the both of them with a glare that freezes them in their non-existent shoes. "You can bicker later, when we've left here and there is no one to overhear."

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam jerks toward a table not two seconds later.

Celine sees Strider hauling Frodo off upstairs. A smart move; now it looked like a ranger rounding up a query or demanding payment, a normal enough occurrence in this tavern, or any tavern.

"Quiet!" She stops Samwise in his tracks with a glare she normally reserves only for foes in battle. But she knows it's the only way to get his attention; he's far too protective of his master to listen to anything else.

"Strider won't do him any harm. Now wait with me."

"But-"

She quiets Merry's protest with another of her stares.

"He did us a favor; now it looks like ranger business, and no one will dare question it."

"Are rangers dangerous then?" Pippin sounds remarkably like a child just with that one, silly question.

"No one crosses us," she says simply, as if it's the most obvious fact in the world.

"Are we gonna sit here all night?" grumbles a very unhappy, very worried Sam.

"We'll go and see your precious Frodo, but only when I say. Just a few more minutes, Mr. Gamgee."

The hobbits thankfully settle down obediently for the few minutes she's laid down, though Sam in particular sulks. They receive only a few odd looks, but Celine isn't worried. Most, if not all, of the tavern-goers are too inebriated to remember much of anything, and what they might remember will be dismissed as drunken misunderstanding the next morning.

"Drink your ale," she orders them. "To keep up appearances."

"It's been long enough," Sam instantly argues, swiping his mug to the side and starting to stand.

"Not yet it hasn't," she counters, steel in her gaze.

"Gandalf specifically told me not to leave Mr. Frodo, and I don't intend on breakin' that promise," he practically growls at her.

Something in her softens, though she carefully hides it away. She knows what it's like to make a promise.

"Just a bit longer, Samwise, and we will go and get Frodo. But for now, wait." She even changes her tone so he knows she understands, at least a little.

To his credit, he huffs but plops back down, though he fidgets like a child in a classroom on a sunny day.

She waits another two minutes to prove her point, and then she has mercy on the anxious little creatures and tosses some coins on the table to pay for the drinks.

"Come on then. But stick close to me." With nothing else to say, Celine rises and makes for the stairs with all the self-assurance expected of a dangerous ranger. No one even spares their little party a second glance.

However, the minute they reach the hallway upstairs, Sam bolts off at a thundering sprint that takes her by surprise, and by the time she realizes her mistake, he's already gone and busted down the door at the end with his sword out in front of him. Thankful she had the reflexes to grab the other two by their collars the minute he took off, she rushes to the door with a sigh of annoyance. Were her directions truly so difficult to adhere to?

Sam spits out some threat as she arrives, staring down Strider like he's the leader of the armies of Mordor. Celine almost laughs at how his miniature sword shakes in his hand.

Strider glances back at her, sword drawn and ready, looking just mildly put out that Sam slipped past her, but he quickly sheathes it with a kinder look on his rugged face.

"You have a stout heart, little hobbit. But that will not save you."

"Sam, put down the sword. As you can see, Frodo is quite unhurt," Celine hisses at him, finally releasing her deathgrip on Merry and Pippin.

Sam relents, to her shock, and puts away the admittedly unthreatening blade to listen to the ranger who's turned back to the frightened-looking Frodo in the corner.

"You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming."

Celine stares in confusion for barely half a moment before the pieces click. The Nine must be know where the Ring is whenever it's put on.

"But it's far too dangerous to leave now, at night. This is when they hunt the most," Celine interjects.

"Gandalf did tell us to travel only by day," Sam offers.

"He was wise to do so. But we cannot stay here and wait," Strider starts to say, before Celine has an idea.

"Wait. I think I have a solution."

They all wait patiently while she organizes the plan in her head.

"You accepted the accommodations. Strider, do you have a room for the night?"

"I do," he answers. "In the inn across the street." Understanding dawns on his face as he catches on.

"I'll stuff the beds, take the hobbits there and I will join you when I'm finished." And just like that, she leaves the menfolk and finds the closet where the inn keeps all its extra bedding supplies.

She takes the pillows she needs, heads to the hobbit rooms, and completes the task with a frown on her face. She prefers traveling alone, but it looks as though Strider will be joining their little party. He's one of the best and a friend of hers, but she still likes working alone. Attachment never breeds any good, she knows this.

Celine throws the pillows on the next bed and tucks them in more forcefully than she really has to. Briefly, she considers running down to the stables to grab horsehair that, arranged correctly, would add to the ruse, but such a run would attract attention, and she has no idea how much time they have before the Nine arrive.

As if to confirm her fear, a not-so-distant crash breaks her focus. A curse flies from her lips as she bolts to the window and peeks out cautiously.

The gate lies flat on the ground, and there's no sign of the gatekeeper. She ignores the tightness in her chest that presses on her when she understands what must have happened. There the riders are now, flowing in through the gate and galloping over it like it's nothing. She'd warned the old man to be careful, hadn't she?

There's no time for grief, and she barely knew him anyway, she tells herself. She finishes making the beds and rushes to Strider's room, sticking to the shadows and thanking her time in the wild for allowing her to slip out the back door and across the street unnoticed. He always stays in the room in the middle of the hallway.

At her knock, the door creaks open and the first thing she sees is the glint of steel. Only when Strider is sure it's her and only her does he open the door just enough to let her in.

"They're here," she whispers breathlessly, icy fear pulsing through her veins.

"We heard," Frodo monotones, staring out the window.

Soft snores break the tense silence, and Celine has to smile at the sight of the blonde hobbits asleep already.

Strider takes his seat in the armchair by the window and starts smoking his pipe again. The familiar smell of the smoke comforts the Wanderer more than she'll admit. It's good to have something normal in the midst of the upheaval of the past few days, hours even.

"Will it work?" Frodo asks her as she comes and sits beside him.

She's not sure, but she pretends she is for his sake.

"They won't touch you," she says, quietly so she won't wake the others.

Strider puts a finger to his lips as the sound of galloping hooves echoes from downstairs. They all immediately fall silent, and do the only thing they can do: wait.

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><p><strong>Review!<strong>


	3. Chapter 2

**Just when I thought I'd memorized the movies, I rewatched FOTR and found a scene that'd slipped my mind...so that's why this chapter took a little longer. But it's here now, so enjoy!**

**Thank you to NightShadeMoon, Katosade, and Astiar for the lovely reviews!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

When the screams start, the sleeping hobbits bolt upright and Celine freezes in her spot. A glance at Frodo shows her that he's reasonably alright, only a bit shaken. Strider hushes them as the wraiths migrate into the cobblestone street, and Celine fights the urge to cover her ears against their comrades' answering screeches. The three hobbits that were asleep so peacefully sit up with fear in their eyes. Sam's first glance is at Frodo.

"What are they?" asks Frodo, his face surprisingly blank.

Strider turns from the window but doesn't let go of the sword cradled to his chest as he answers, "They were once men." Frodo's face gains a hint of horror and sadness to it, and Celine keeps her own expression carefully neutral. "Great kings of men. Then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question, one by one all falling into darkness."

Celine feels a cold shiver run over her and tries to ignore it, but she just barely keeps herself from subtly squirming. She glances back at the blonde hobbits. Their reaction is quite visible, and so she doesn't feel quite so ridiculous.

"Now they are slaves to his will." Strider pauses again, and Celine almost tells him to just blurt it out and cut the drama. "They are the Nazgul."

"Ring wraiths," Celine supplies at the hobbit's confused faces. "Neither living nor dead." One of their horrid screams punctuates the explanation and makes her want to shrink away from the window in spite of herself. She resists, for the hobbits' benefit.

"At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you."

Celine is beyond grateful that the black riders have left now, leaving cold silence in their wake.

Sam speaks up with a tremor in his voice. "What do we do then?"

Strider and Celine share a glance before she answers for the both of them.

"We go into the wilds, where they can't track us. Avoid the roads." Celine immediately thinks of food and water and how on earth they'll manage to feed the hobbits. "What did you bring with you?"

"We have plenty of food left, miss, and I can cook," Sam offers.

"We will have everything we need."

Celine turns back to Strider and remembers his skill with hunting. They won't have time for traps and snares, her specialty, but bringing down a deer or the like wouldn't put them too far behind.

"Get some rest, Master hobbits," Celine says. "You'll need it."

She expects them to argue, to ask for a more detailed idea of where they're going, but they crawl back into bed, Frodo included, without anything but wearily cautious faces. Strider stands once they're softly snoring and silently motions for her to follow. She obliges; they have things to speak of that perhaps the hobbits have no need of hearing just yet. And besides, best to let them sleep.

They go downstairs and enter a deserted pub of empty tables, overturned chairs, and forgotten mugs of ale still with half their contents. Even the bartender is nowhere to be found. So much the better; they have many things to discuss, and privacy is a luxury. But they choose a table at the back wall just to be safe.

"Where do you intend to go?" Celine asks as soon as they've both sat down.

"Rivendell. Gandalf spoke to me as he left. The Ring will be safe there, as will the hobbits."

Celine nods her agreement. The magic of the elves can keep the black riders at bay. Still, the plan has its risks.

"And how do we plan on keeping four very innocent, very pampered hobbits alive in the wild in the weeks it will take to get there?"

"They are frightened, Celine. They won't have trouble following us." Strider certainly sounds confident, and she has complete confidence in him. But she'd like this trip to go as smoothly as possible.

"Best be good to Samwise and Merry; they're the protective ones of the bunch. The least trusting too." She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms at Strider's continued silence.

His first reply is to take out his pipe again. She knows it helps him think, really, but she's not fond of the smell of the smoke.

Strider shakes his head. "They will give me no trouble." He shifts in his chair to face her more directly, a surefire sign he's about to change the subject. "And you will be accompanying us?"

"I promised Mithrandir I would see them safely to Bree and elsewhere if need be. Of course I'm going."

"Good," he nods. "With four of them, two of us can look after them better."

Celine almost stares at him in surprise, but steels herself. She settles for almost boring holes in the table with her gaze. Strider is much like herself in his preference for solitude. She doesn't think she's yet heard him imply that someone else could be of help to him.

"Well, I was one of your best students," she finally replies, indulging in a gentle smirk as she does.

"You were my only student, Celine," he reminds her with a grin that curls around the pipe in his mouth.

"Then so much the better, for we can now add that accomplishment to my list."

It feels good to joke with an old friend like this, even if the circumstances are rather dire. She missed human company in the uninterrupted weeks, months, she's spent in the wild hunting small packs of orcs, though she'd never admit it to anyone but herself.

Strider shakes his head and returns to his pipe, but she still smiles; she can see the grin still. After a few puffs, he's oddly still. He's thinking, and she knows not to press him until he returns to the world of the now. So she entertains herself with picking a splinter from the table while she waits.

"Where was Gandalf riding when last you saw him?" He finally breaks the silence with a question Celine has wondered all night if he'd ask her.

"He was riding to Isengard."

"Then where is he? Sauroman is our ally," murmurs the ranger with a ponderous puff of the pipe.

"I wish I knew, but I know enough to be concerned for him. Mithrandir may not be known for his punctuality, but with something of this importance he never deserts those who need him."

"I will watch for signs to tell us if Isengard is still our ally."

"You think Sauroman heeded the call of the Dark Tower?" Celine isn't very well acquainted with the Sauroman the White, but if Mithrandir saw fit to trust him, she always has for that reason alone. Mithrandir's judgment has never been wrong in the time she's known him; she'd follow him anywhere.

'Perhaps even great wizards can make mistakes,' she thinks. Somehow, the thought comforts her. Well, it would were circumstances different. This whole scenario is outside her expertise; she could use the wizard's help more than she'd ever like to admit.

"The black riders. Will they be back?" she asks after several minutes of his pondering have passed and he returns to puffing more shallowly.

"No, they believe we have gone already. But we will take all precautions."

"The Ring calls to them even when Frodo does not wear it, yes?"

"Yes, but they feel only its presence. Frodo must put it on for them to know precisely where it is."

"But if we get too close to one and we don't realize it, the rider would feel it?"

Strider nods and puffs a particularly grand smoke cloud.

"The road is dangerous, but we will arrive safely."

Celine doesn't say it, but she thinks it; they have to. What other choice do they have?

* * *

><p>She jolts awake in the grey night just before dawn and packs before the sun begins to peek over the horizon. To pass the hour or two before sunup, Celine goes across the street to the room the riders destroyed and uses the pillows as target practice for her knives. At sunrise exactly, she rushes back and pays the innkeeper here, who looks several shades paler this morning than he did last night.<p>

"Did ye see the riders this night past?" he whispers with a tremor in his voice.

"I heard them," she says simply. She almost takes pity on the poor man, but she's not so well acquainted with this innkeeper. "But they have no cause to return."

"Harry is dead. Broke down the wall, they did," he continues. She can just barely detect the sorrow hidden under his gruff exterior. This man must be shaken indeed, to speak with a person he does not know about this. "Terrible way to go, that."

"I know. I'm sorry. He was my friend too." She offers a grim smile, the closest thing to comfort she can give, only to quickly smooth her face of its expression at the sound of several pairs of feet coming down the stairs.

The innkeeper immediately straightens as well and attempts to wipe all signs of distress from his face. And when he recognizes the man with the hobbits as Strider, he fumbles in his rush to get them out the door. Celine can't help but think of Butterbur at the Prancing Pony and the pains she took to befriend the man because she knew an innkeeper would be a good pair of eyes and ears if ever she needed one. But Strider does not offer his friendship lightly even for information, and so his reputation as the feared ranger is all this innkeeper knows.

As soon as they step outside into the sunlight, Celine lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Maybe the Black Riders shook her more than she thought. Whatever the case, she doesn't have time to consider her sudden ease; Strider leads them through several back alleys still muddy from last night's rain and into the scattered trees with a hurried pace.

"So, you'll be coming with us then?" pipes a peppy voice right next to her.

"It would appear that way, wouldn't it, Master Took," she chuckles. Somehow, despite the hobbit's excessive curiosity, she's grudgingly fond of his cheerfulness.

"Well you could be here just to see us out of Bree," he defends with an indignant sound that closely resembles a squeak. Celine has to fight back a grin at the high octave he manages to reach.

"I said I would accompany you beyond Bree if necessary, and lo and behold, here is the necessity."

"The ring wraiths?"

'He looks so innocent,' she thinks to herself. So much like…

No. She has put all thoughts of her past from her mind since the moment Mithrandir asked her help. There are demons aplenty for her to worry herself with in the here and now; there's no use dredging up her particular ones from the past.

She forces a smile so Pippin won't sense that a cloud has descended on her thoughts.

"Indeed. I couldn't very well leave you four to your own devices after that, now could I?"

"Well, Strider seems to know where he's going, but he's not quite as easy to talk to," babbles the blonde hobbit with no regard for lowering his voice for the sake of tact. Celine hides her smile in the folds of her hood and pretends she doesn't hear Merry chastise him.

"What? He's more the silent, serious type!" Pippin truly doesn't know when to pipe down, and Celine tries not to smile more at it. It's been a long while since she's been in such jovial company.

"Will you hush! Half the forest can hear you!"

"Master Brandybuck has a point," Celine whispers, just loud enough so she knows he can hear.

For his part, Merry looks pleased with himself, though he tries to hide it. She's still earning his trust, but she's perfectly alright with that; he's still earning hers, after all. In fact, she's pleased that he has the good sense not to trust easily in times such as these.

Pippin scuffs at the dirt underfoot with a pout. Then the blushing hobbit catches his foot on a rock that was buried under the soil and yelps, and then Celine truly has to turn the other way, or everyone will see her wide smile. She passes off the beginnings of her laugh as a cough.

The others turn around with amused curiosity, and as soon as they realize Pippin was the source of the noise, they smile to themselves and continue walking. Celine has a feeling the source of most of the antics and minor mishaps of the journey will come at the hands of Peregrin Took.

Strider suddenly stops and stands perfectly still. Celine quickly hushes the hobbits; the ranger is listening, and by the looks of it he thinks danger is close. And then she hears it too: a distant but clear neigh of a horse. Only the Black Riders have horses whose neighs sound closer to growls.

"Come," is all Strider needs to say. They all take off at a steady jog; fast enough to put some distance between them and the road, and slow enough that their energy won't be sapped too fast. Still, Celine almost grunts as they hurry up a rather steep hill.

She shoos the hobbits ahead of her and looks back. There lies Bree, looking deceptively peaceful from her position. She can't see the road, but she listens herself and still hears the horses, albeit farther away. The important thing is that the Riders didn't detect them.

Strider only slows down to a reasonable walk when neither of them can hear the horses, and then a little farther after that. The hobbits are out of breath, and she can see that they want nothing more than to sit down for a few minutes and rest their weary legs. Unfortunately, they won't have that luxury until nightfall.

"Come now, Master hobbits. The more distance we put between us and the Black Riders, the safer you will be."

They look up at her wearily, but do as she says. She's at a loss of how else to motivate them as she sees their feet dragging, but she remembers how she used to tell stories, long ago. Her little brother loved them.

She grits her teeth and thinks of nothing but what entertaining story she can tell them to get their minds off their exhaustion. The tales she knows now are more suited to grief and steel than laughter.

As she's thinking of what to say, she notices Merry leaning toward Frodo and speak in a low tone not meant for her or Strider's ears. She pretends not to hear, though she clearly understands as Merry asks how they know Strider is truly a friend of Gandalf.

"I think a servant of the enemy would look fairer, feel fouler," comes Frodo's reply. Celine bites her tongue on a remark about the Black Riders and their far-from-fair countenances.

"He's foul enough," returns the suspicious hobbit. Celine hides her smirk and thinks to herself that there are no baths in the wild.

"We have no choice but to trust him."

Merry's gaze turns to her, and Celine adjusts her line of vision just in time so it doesn't appear as if she was listening in. Frodo follows his friend's gaze and, to Celine's surprise, smiles.

"And Celine as well."

"She did appear out of nowhere," Sam pipes in.

"And she helped me escape the ring wraith and its horse," Frodo says. This time, she glances over as he casts a grateful nod in her direction. She returns the gesture out of respect.

"They're the best we have right now."

All three of the hobbits regard Pippin with nothing short of surprise, a sentiment Celine shares. On the one hand, she's quite indignant for the ingratitude. The best they have? And on the other, she's shocked to hear something of sense come from Pippin's mouth.

"But where are they taking us?" Sam whispers, attempting to be quiet and utterly failing. Everyone hears him.

"Rivendell, Master Gamgee," Strider replies, to Sam's shock. "To the House of Elrond."

Celine almost walks up to him to ask why he told them so freely if they had to discuss it outside of the hobbits' hearing last night, but she decides against it. There were other things for them to speak of.

"Did you hear that? Rivendell! We're goin' to see the elves!"

"How long have you wanted to meet them, Master Gamgee?" Celine knows the wonder in his voice; it used to be there in some measure in her own.

She was once as enamored of the elves as he, until she saw her home consumed by fire and war. And some part of her began to resent the excessive perfection of the elves. They kept to their own, when the world of men needed them most. There had been an alliance in the old days; what had changed so much? Was the world of men still doomed to pay for Isildur's mistake so many, many centuries ago?

And so, when she came close to Mirkwood or Lorien or Rivendell in her travels, she avoided them. The closest she came was skirting the borders of Mirkwood, because a band of orcs too large for her to handle on her own had been on her trail, hungry for human flesh to eat and other even more disagreeable things. She was a woman, after all, and orcs did not often know women, but they were made for violence. And so for the women the foul creatures saw, the violence was that much worse, simply because there was more opportunity.

Celine's lip curls back in disgust without her realizing it until it's too late. And then Pippin is asking her what's the matter and she's making up some lie about how she's worried about the Black Riders and angry that they killed the gatekeeper, Wyvern. Strider glances back at her so briefly and so subtly the hobbits fail to notice, but Celine knows that he's identified her lie. But then, he knows some of her past, and so the truth shouldn't be hard for him to guess.

"Have you ever seen elves, Miss Celine?" Sam asks, the suspicion for once gone from his face. He's preoccupied with his admiration of the fairest beings on Middle Earth.

"No, my travels have not taken me near them," she lies. It's easier than explaining why she avoids them, and she doubts a hobbit and a gardener could understand anyway. What a hobbit's biggest challenge? Which plant to sow?

Celine notices how tense she's become, and part of that is guilt for her angry thoughts. She forces herself to relax, but can't help walking a bit faster. She is The One Who Wanders, and wandering is what she does best. And here, with these hobbits who need her guidance and Strider who wants her aid, she feels stifled. Trapped by an obligation she was foolish enough to ask for.

For a while, she keeps to herself, speaking little and trying to care even less. But the hobbits have grown on her just enough that she feels a twinge of guilt. So she hides everything behind a mask of business and works on noting where any edible plants are, just in case Sam's food supply isn't sufficient, or if she feels like midnight foraging. She's done it many a time, when she can't sleep. Gathering plants is soothing to her; repetitive, thoughtless now that she's been in the wild for so long and she knows the plants by heart and by glance.

Without her realizing it, she almost passes even Strider's quick pace. The only thing that brings her back to herself is the discreet clearing of his throat.

"Are you well, Celine?" he murmurs, barely loud enough for her to hear.

She vaguely appreciates his tact, but she can't help the quiet rebuke that comes out of her mouth.

"I am the Wanderer, just as you are Strider. Please refer to me as such." Celine keeps the bite out of the comment, but it has the desired effect; he doesn't ask more. When she was his student, he learned to understand when to leave her be, just as she learned when to keep her silence.

"Have you taken note of the plants?"

Celine nods shortly. She's not big on small talk unless it serves a distinct purpose.

"The hobbits would likely appreciate another story," he suggests with a knowing look.

"And I have none to tell at the moment. They will survive for another few hours until I can come up with entertainment."

"Tell them of your family."

She turns to him with a glare that warns him not to speak of that again.

"I will not speak of them until I have avenged them. That is my rule, and I stand by it."

To her relief, Strider doesn't point out that she's taken on a few dozen small orc packs since their deaths and still she's found no peace.

"Something troubles you, and I will not ask what because you do not wish it, but I think recalling happier times would ease your heart."

"My heart would be eased if they were alive. I'll go and tell the hobbits a cursed story, but only to quiet you."

And with that, the Wanderer turns on her heel and returns to the hobbits, who are admittedly looking rather at a loss of how to pass the time. Pippin and Sam are preoccupied with the food in Bill the pony's saddlebags. Celine gives the loyal animal a gentle pat on the neck as she falls into step with the halflings and begins the first story that comes to mind. She's surprised when she starts telling them a story she used to hear before bedtime many years ago, but it's too late to stop talking without drawing questions. It's a nice story anyway.

* * *

><p>Not an hour later, just as Celine is about to ask Strider if she can scamper up a tree and try to see where the black riders are, they both notice the whispers and slight clatter behind them. Strider is quicker to turn around than she is, but when she looks over her shoulder to see why he's frowning and calling to get their attention, her eyebrows raise halfway up her forehead as she bites her lip against a grin.<p>

"We do not stop til nightfall," he tells them.

"What about breakfast?" asks Pippin with a small parcel in his little hands. Celine turns around fully now, to appreciate the humorous scene.

"We've already had it," answers a confused Strider.

"We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?"

Celine's lips twitch with the effort of keeping her smile at bay. Strider may be annoyed, if how he subtly squares his shoulders and continues on is any indication, but she's amused with the hobbits' preoccupation with food. She stifles her amusement enough that she can beckon the hobbits along with a tip of her head without smirking.

"Don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip," she hears Merry mutter as she's turning around to follow Strider up the small hill.

"What about Elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper?!" Pippin protests, his voice growing increasingly frantic from what she can tell.

Celine comes up beside Strider just as he's plucking apples from a nearby tree with a wry grin on his weathered face.

"Hobbits truly are amazing creatures, to observe mealtimes so diligently with nine riders looking for them," she says, smirking as he tosses four apples down to her.

"Indeed. Will you require a second breakfast as well, Celine?"

She shakes her head with her smile still on her face, especially with that rare amused twinkle in his eyes.

"No, but I think we'd best bring a few more of those apples for their other meals in between now and dinner."

* * *

><p>A few days later, their journey continues with a trip through the mosquito-infested marshes. Once they're through Midgewater, Weathertop is the next marker they will look to. Celine tries very hard not to think about how much quicker she could get there on her own, but more than once she finds herself thinking exactly that.<p>

She's never been very good with groups.

Still, the poor hobbits; Strider and herself only have to suffer marshwater up to their knees, but the halflings easily find themselves thigh-deep. Waist-deep, in the worst parts.

They really are being quite patient with the whole thing. She hears barely a word of complaint, though that could well be the result of their determination not to fall in the stinking waters or their preoccupation with smacking away the buzzing insects swarming them.

"What do they eat, when they can't get hobbit?" she hears Merry exclaim in frustration, the inquiry punctuated by a loud smack.

"They feast on ranger from time to time, but hobbits are a treat," she replies in the lightest tone she can manage, seeing as how her right foot has sunk into a particularly muddy patch and doesn't seem to have a mind to leave anytime soon.

Before she gets an answer, water and mud splashes onto her back and neck. She frees her foot with a squelch and turns to offer a hand to a rather unhappy Peregrin Took. He nods his thanks, water droplets flying as he tries to shake off the marsh from his face.

The rest of the day is just as miserable, though Strider does manage to find a piece of unsubmerged ground to make camp on for the night.

"We're starting to run low on provisions," Strider whispers to her as the hobbits are taking off their packs and finding patches of moss to sit on. "I'm going hunting."

She nods once.

"I saw few edible plants here. Samwise and I will forage once we've left these marshes."

"That will be well."

Strider leaves then, bow and full quiver in hand, and Celine returns to the hobbits, where Sam is starting to open the food packs. She stops him with a smile and tells him to just get out some spices and a knife or two.

"Strider's gone hunting," she explains with a smile.

"How did you find us, Celine?" Frodo suddenly asks, effectively ending the conversation on food.

"Gandalf sent me to look after you and said you were heading toward the Prancing Pony. I rode to the Shire as fast as I could, and I'd just crossed the Brandywine River when I heard the Nazgûl. I knew you'd be close by."

It's the longest explanation she's given them to date, but she understood from Frodo's tone that he was feeling uneasy and secretly wondering if he really could trust her.

A long silence stretches on, presumably while the hobbits digest her account. When they do speak again, it's Pippin who opens his mouth first.

"Where are you from? You never really told us," he says, all curiosity and no suspicion. It's refreshing, though she'll never say so.

She hesitates now. She never speaks of her past, and she likes to keep it that way. Only Gandalf and Strider know of her life before she was the Wanderer, and what they know was by necessity only. Why should she tell four hobbits what has weighed on her heart for so many months, perhaps years by now. She's never really kept track of the passage of time since she began wandering.

"Gondor," she finally tells them, in a tone that she hopes says she wishes to speak no more of it.

"Then how did you end up here?"

Damn that curious hobbit.

She only forces a smile because to react too sourly to such simple questions would raise suspicion, and heaven knows they can afford none of that now, not with the riders after them. Perhaps if they were safely in Rivendell, she wouldn't care so much what they think of her.

"I am the One Who Wanders, remember?" Pippin starts to open his mouth, presumably to ask her another unwelcome question of her origins, but she hushes him with a hand. "That's all I wish to say, Master Hobbit."

For a moment, she's sure he's going to ask her anyway, but he surprises her by grinning and asking instead what she thinks Strider will bring back.

"Best hope it's not a beaver," she answers with a smile in her eyes. "Their meat's really quite tough, gamey, and all around unpleasant."

"Even if it is, I've brought some spices and such," Sam pipes up. She knows enough about the hobbit's reserved nature to be flattered that he spoke up so freely.

"Then we shall feast like kings, Mr. Gamgee."

* * *

><p>Strider soon returns with a large buck slung over his shoulders and the messy task of cleaning the animal begins. Between Strider, Sam, and herself, it doesn't take too terribly long, though she could do without the animal blood coating her arms up to her elbows. She's no stranger to cleaning fresh meat from a corpse, but it's not her favorite thing to do.<p>

"Back of the neck as always, my friend," she says with a smile. Strider's deer always yield so much because he manages to hit the animals just below the back of their head so all but the tip of the neck is usable.

He smiles, but his mind is somewhere else tonight. She knows not to press him; he's in a reflecting mood, and she won't be surprised if he sings tonight after he thinks everyone else is asleep.

They eat well that night, and they will eat well for many nights to come. Celine makes sure to thank Pippin for the mushrooms, as they go rather well with the venison. She's, frankly, surprised the mushrooms lasted this long.

She tells the hobbits one more story before sending them off to bed with full stomachs. At first, she fully intends to stay up for another few hours at least, but Strider's been nearly silent the entire evening, and so she curls up herself. Just as she's falling into a fitful sleep, she hears him start to sing.

It's a sad song, from what she can tell. His heart is heavy tonight, and she isn't sure if she can be of much help. Perhaps he needs to nurse his sorrow in peace and solitude. He often does, after all.

* * *

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